Musical Chairs

The first chair was a chair of many firsts.

It was the first time I'd had a sexual encounter with anyone at the office. (Not that the thought hadn't occurred to me on many occasions, naturally.)

It was the first time I saw his gorgeous cock outside those swollen jeans. (Up to then I'd thought all penises were pretty ridiculous looking).

It was the first time I knelt between his knees and tried to close my lips around its head, a plum-sized knob that was a real stretch for my small jaw. (My dentist was right after all.)

It was the first time I made and saw him come — a silent grimace that at first made me think I'd made a mistake in switching from tongue to fingers. (I quickly tried to correct, lapping at that sensitive spot where the head meets the base, cupping the head firmly with my palm. Then I realized it was already sticky with cum, and I smiled in surprise and relief.)

It the first time in some 20 years that my fingers had been coated with the cum of a man who was not my husband. (It was this realization, even more than the audacity of the act itself, that made me tremble in shock and leave in such a hurry.)

The chair itself was nothing special: a sturdy, utilitarian modern office chair with black metal poles for legs, no arms, and a seat and backrest upholstered with red cloth that turned out to be particularly stain resistant. The back was otherwise open, making it easy to bring the legs through. The office had dozens of similar chairs, although some were blue, others orange.

This chair was unique only in that it had a noticeable vertical rip in the center of the backrest – as if someone sitting there had been impaled through the sternum by something very sharp.

It was in that chair that he also made me come for the first time, during my second visit to the chair — seeing as how I'd left the previous visit without getting off myself. My skirt up around my waist, panties long gone, he told me slide forward, hold onto the sides of the seat, not to let go. This time, he knelt between my legs, one of which he draped decorously over his shoulder, exposing my dripping cunt.

I didn't think he'd be able to get me off and had told him so previously – I'm a notoriously hard nut to crack the first time (probably a self-fulfilling prophecy). I get nervous and caught up in unproductive thoughts like, Oh, God, am I taking too long? Is he bored down there? Nonsense, he responded. When your eyes are rolled back in your head in pleasure, you won't have time for such thoughts.

And he was right. He brought me right to the very edge, licking and sucking everywhere but THAT spot, making me start to shiver and sweat from sheer need. So when he finally took me fully with his mouth, I came harder than I've ever come without something very big inside me. I'm a certified moaner, and it was so hard to stay quiet, choking it back as I felt my nipples go so hard they almost hurt.

As for something big inside me, I got that too, of course. After a huge orgasm like that one, I feel....tight inside. I needed a nice hard cock to open me back up. I told him so, and he was glad to oblige. I straddled him and begin lowering myself slowly, impaling myself on an extremely hard and dripping pole, feeling myself open, although not without some downward pressure on my part.

He caught me by surprise then, grabbing me by the hips and pulling me down sharply to completely take me. I gasped and felt a shard of sweet pain as he banged right up against my cervix. He said later that the look of shock and pleasure on my face was quite "cute." I didn't care what I looked like as I moved up and down his entire length, feeling the sensation of being utterly filled. So this is what it really feels like to be fucked, I remember thinking.

At least three times a week, I found a reason to meet with him on a matter of urgency and sensitivity. We put that chair to good use – we found that when he took me from behind, it shook a lot less if I knelt on the chair and bent over to brace my hands against the wall rather than simply sprawl across his desktop. Spread-eagling my legs and resting my heels on the desk gave him amazing access to my cunt, my belly, my ass, to do with whatever he liked, a position we nicknamed the "splitter" (as in "split her")... we came up with new variations constantly.

One day, however, I came into his office and found our red friend was gone. Instead, a blue chair stood in its place. I learned that a colleague had come by, needed an extra chair for a meeting, and borrowed the red one. He returned a different chair to the office. And that's when an inspiring idea hit us both: We would fuck in every chair in the office.

We estimated there were about 150 chairs in the office – at three "rides" a week, it would take almost a year. How to keep track? We gave each one a code – R1 for red chair number one, B1 for blue chair number one, etc. – and wrote that on the underside of every chair seat we graced with our presence.

Thus commenced a series of secret maneuvers, with chairs moving in and out of his office at a brisk and regular pace. As they were virtually identical, no one noticed that he had a different one practically every other day. It was a bit tricky finding excuses to retrieve chairs from other floors in the building, so we started coming in on the occasional weekend to flip and check, flip and check.

What I didn't know until later was that he had an equally brilliant idea: He started keeping a spreadsheet with every chair and what we did in, on or with it. Here are some excerpts:

R1: back bend (over the chair), doggy

R22: double oral (his 'n' hers), doggy

R35: anal, jill off

B12: splitter, standing fuck

B18: straddle fuck (twice)

O8: pearl necklace, oral (hers), doggy (see a pattern?)

O14: oral (his), splitter, throne (like a straddle, but I face out)

O24: straddle anal (ouch!)

You get the picture... I hope.

Once we had done every chair in the building, his plan was to present it to me as a memento. And it's a fucking great one – like a sexual roadmap to the entire office. I can flip any chair over, check the code, and remember what we did there.

For some reason, once we'd hit every chair in the place, we lost interest. Sex without the quest lost its spark – it simply became friction and fluids in places we'd already been. Without saying a word to the other, we simply stopped meeting in his office. I couldn't help but peek under chairs compulsively. But the rides were over.

That is, until six months later, when our company outgrew the building. We moved out to the faceless suburbs, where we would have room to sprawl. There the company leased a huge, modern space, with bigger offices, better connectivity...

And hundreds of brand new chairs.